This weekend, in a fit of boredom, I shaved my pussy.

You might be asking yourself what could possibly be so boring that denuding your mount of all follicular growth seems like a good alternative way to spend time, and the answer is, the prospect of driving n-hundred miles to sit in someone's back garden at the Most Domesticated Barbecue Ever. And damn it, if I was going to spend my bank holiday weekend surrounded by people talking about mortgages and babies, then I was going to do it with less pubic hair.

Let's get this straight, the razor has never been a good friend of mine. When it comes to South of the Border, I'm more of a waxing girl. But just try getting a waxing appointment the Friday before a long weekend. Yeah... exactly.

So trusty Gillette in hand, I did the deed. And damn, but it feels good. I'd forgotten how nice it is. How a few square inches of smooth skin can make such a difference to your boyfriend's enthusiasm for cunnilingus.

Of course there are always the drawbacks - the possibility of ingrown hair, the daily maintenance, the fact that you can suddenly feel the difference between cheap lacy knickers and the silk-and-satin heartstoppingly expensive variety (if you're wondering, it's to do with texture, and quality of gusset stitchery). Also, is it just me, or do you seem to spatter the toilet a little more when you wee after a shave? No? Forget I mentioned it then (*ahem* discreetly wiping the underside of the seat).

But you know, all in all, I'm pleased. I can't imagine why I let myself go for so long. And if nothing else it's dampened the desire to get a radical haircut-and-dye for, ooh, a good couple of months I should think.

(I was away some time ago, and reminded of this when I came across an item of clothing in the laundry this morning and thought, 'wait, that's not my bra...')

I came back in to the shared bedroom from the shower, dripping wet. My clothes were on the bed. I put on pants and wrapped the towel round my hair, turban-style. Looked for a bra. No bra.

Ran to the cupboard. Went through my knickers and socks. No bra, no bra. Where the hell could it have gone?

Oh, right. Of course. I put on a baggy top and padded to the bungalow kitchen, where K was sitting, surrounded by men (i.e. her native habitat). 'K, darling, I have to ask you something...' I said, trying to indiciate the hallway, where we could speak privately.

'Sure,' she said, giving me a look that said she wasn't about to leave the room, and possibly forfeit being the centre of attention on Man Island.

Fine then, she asked for it. 'Are you wearing my bra?' The boys gasped.

'Are you two actually the same size?'

'I want to see! Tits out!'

'We'd better check her!' Whereupon the squealing K was pinned ot the table as I pulled up the back of her shirt. Black lace, stretch leopard print - yep, she'd nicked me bra. Cow.

'Come on, you can't do all that and not at least let us watch you trade them back.'

'Fat chance,' K snarled, and dragged me back to our room.

First La Petite Anglaise, now Girl With a One-Track Mind. It saddens, but doesn't surprise, me to see yet another anonymous blogger outed by the press. I feel incredibly lucky to still have a bit of privacy, some three years after being named the Grauniad's Best British Blogger, but it hasn't been a piece of piss. The price of a bestseller is, it seems, eternal vigilance.

How to be an anonymous author and stay that way:

• Trust no one.
  
• Don't meet people. I conduct 99% of Belle-business through an anonymous, encrypted email account. No one meets me who doesn't have to.
• Seek advice from the people who know. The aforementioned email account? Recommended by Jet Set Lara. The agent? Recommended by Mil Millington.
• Guard your private details. Protect your name like you would an asset. Even now, most people associated with the book have never known my real name, and none knows my address.
• Don't be afraid to cut people off. If someone smells like a rat, they are.
• Keep good records. My call girl name, my writing name and the pseudonyms the people who've met me use - all unique, all unrelated.
• ...But don't write too much down. There really are people whose job it is to go through someone's rubbish. Consider investing in a crosscut shredder.
• Ignore the hype. Parties and expensive lunches and book signings are probably great, but I'll never know. Similarly, meet people in unexpected places. Belle de Jour does not, alas, take lunch with her editor at the Ivy.
• Trust no one. Worth repeating that one. Think you can keep a secret? You're going to have to keep it from everyone you know and everyone you meet, possibly forever.
  
• Get lost. Take a holiday after your book comes out. Turn off your phone. Stop reading email.
• Do interviews by email. No photos, no meetings, no voice recordings. There is no contract in the world that will convince someone to keep your secret if they really want to shop you out.
• Remember the broadsheets are just as bad as the red-tops. When it comes to anything literary, they're worse.
• Be patient. The media lose interest eventually. Until then it's a long (and nerve-wracking) road.
• Don't flash the cash and never fall afoul of the Inland Revenue.
  
• Anonymity costs money. I never begrudge the fees that go to my accountant and the byzantine arrangements that mean I can be paid without the publishers knowing my name; it's just what the privilege of anonymity costs.
  
• Build good will. If you're a writer, be an on-time and on-spec writer who says yes to everything, and delivers. I've only had one bad run-in with features for print media, and I reused the material elsewhere, so it wasn't so bad.
• No, really, trust no one.
  
• Luck is the end result of a good plan. I got lucky, because I worked with the best in the business. Someone is only as good as his word if he has as much to lose (or gain) as you do.

This morning a dj saved my life.

Or if not saved, at least improved significantly; that is, after all, what I assume the song is about. No one's life was ever really saved by a dj, was it? If you were having a heart attack in a club, for instance, what are the chances a dj would strip off his headphones, jump down to the dance floor and administer the kiss of life? Slim to none is my guess. And how many people can say that a dj gave them the kidney they needed to survive, or a bone marrow donation? Very few, if any at all.

Anyway. I've been a bit down lately. Various reasons. Work is tedious. Not just normal tedious, but actual, watching paint dry would be better than this, full-on brain-melting unbearable. My friends are all away on holiday. And my boyfriend, apart from the occasional holiday-inspired blip of sexual desire, is proving himself to be rather less than the godlike-lover-in-shining-armour I'd really like in my life (or failing that, someone who at least turns up three times a day to service my needs). So this morning I was sitting at the computer feeling a mite sorry for myself.

But then a dj saved my life (figuratively, as discussed earlier). It started with Bauhaus - Bela Lugosi's Dead - on 6 Music. Followed by Blondie, Rip Her to Shreds. And then, when I was already perking up considerably, the icing on the cake.

Sultans of Ping FC, Where's Me Jumper?

If you don't know this song, all I can say is, I'm sorry. And if you do know it, and it doesn't make your day to hear it, you're probably beyond saving.

It was at this point I started pogoing around the room, much to the amusement of... well, no one actually. I was alone in the office. Because as also discussed earlier, everyone's away. It cheered me up no end and made everything that's been bothering me lately seem just that bit less important. It was followed by some French a cappella beatbox-y thing (that was when I went to the toilet). Music loves you, baby. Musci will get you through. Yes, I thought. I can handle things. Life isn't so bad. I should count my blessings, &c.

Doesn't mean I'm not half-looking out for a new lover, though.